


Red Memories

by Papallion



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Body hacking, Cybernetics, Gun Violence, Hacking, Racial slurs, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papallion/pseuds/Papallion
Summary: Sombra finds a fascinating new toy in the form of Vermilion Lau, a former triad assassin who just happens to have an advanced A.I. she wants to play with.





	1. Damaged

Vermilion squatted over his datapad, planning his attack.  For most of a week he had been watching Los Muertos, mainly to see if he had any competition.  The last time he had tried to take out a small cluster the man known only as the ‘vigilante soldier’ had cleared them out first, and he almost took Vermilion with them.

As Vermilion was working his way into a building he had come face to face with a red visor and a giant rifle aimed at him.  His own .50 caliber customs were so small next to it. 

The soldier said nothing as Vermilion carefully holstered his guns at his hips and snapped the straps, then held his hands up.

Vermilion then slowly opened his jacket, pointing to his data pad, and the soldier did nothing as he pulled it out and expanded it, showing the bounty list.

The vigilante had grumbled and left.

Vermilion had taken the bounties the man left behind and decided to buy him a drink if he ever saw him again: he had made good money on his work.  It gave him some pleasure to know that red eyes were terrifying, as he kept his own his favorite shade of vermilion.

It was simple for him to hack into the security system and access the security cameras.  After a few minutes he realized he didn’t have much time. The last truck was pulling in and everyone in the warehouse was getting ready to leave.

Once Vermilion had been sure he would not be interrupted again he began his attack.  His rifle was quiet, but powerful, and he easily shot the four guards outside.

It was simple for him to kick the door in.  He wore a frame over his legs, and it gave him enhanced strength and speed.  It was wired into his artificial spine and he was quite adept as using it for mobility.  

The bounty hunter flung a few smoke bombs and flashers, his cybernetic eyes filtering the smoke and lights, and he activated Persephone.  The guards were the first he shot. So long as he could see his cybernetic arms could aim automatically with deadly accuracy. 

Persephone had another feature, one he was having difficulty with.  She was supposed to watch his back, identifying guns and hostile postures, but it didn't’ work with Los Muertos.  Their outlandish color schemes and random shapes confused the artificial intelligence, and occasionally Vermilion took a hit.

He never had this trouble in China, hunting for his triad bosses.  Red Lotus had been dismantled, though, and it was safer for him as a biracial man in the American Southwest than it was back home.

The displaced assassin followed the green flashes in his vision, arms still aiming, and rolled behind a crate.  He reloaded as bullets gnawed the wood around him, checked his vision with the security cameras and huffed. 

The cameras were going down one by one, and he was going in blind.

Vermilion cursed himself for not getting to the warehouse earlier, but he didn’t think the soldier would let him go again and had spent an hour scanning various channels and nes feeds for him.  He rolled out from under cover, hoping they hadn’t moved in the five seconds since the cameras went down.

He took a hit from an energy blast to the small of his back, but his armor held.  His redistribution field activated, spreading the damage and minimising it. The technology was worth every penny.  

Vermilion swung his head around, requiring targets, and he quickly finished off the last four men.  The bounty hunter holstered his massive guns and slid outside for his gear. He had a small rolling suitcase that contained his restraints and he opened it with a flourish.  The hunter quickly snagged the highest bounties first, securing them in the electric bindings and setting them aside. 

Something moved behind him and Vermilion whirled, aiming Dragon, his right gun.  He quickly dropped down and edged toward the wall, eyes flickering over the wearhouse.  When nothing moved his holstered Dragon and continued shackling the gang members.

Vermilion shackled the last of the high bounties and pondered taking in the others.  Some of the low-ranking members wouldn’t net him five hundred credits and weren’t worth the transport fees.  Maybe he could cut a deal, he thought to himself, trade the lowest for transport for the highest?

As he was tallying his bounties something moved again, and Vermilion whirled, gun out.  He scanned the area, quickly crouching and moving to put his back against the nearest crate, and somehow something touched his back.  His vision went purple and he was unable to move as his lungs quit working.

There was a soft giggle, and his vision flickered in and out.

“My, aren’t you a pretty little puppet?” a soft voice hissed, and his neck and mouth twitched as he started to run out of air.  

For several moments he panicked, frozen, his professional image broken by the need to breathe.  

“Oh, do you want some air?” she asked, and his lungs were unlocked.  

He made several undignified heaving noises as he struggled to fill his lungs.  

“Such a strange little system you have, I’d love to play with it.  What type of man lets an A.I. have complete control over him and his organs?  Very curious, mijo.” She worked her way deeper into his programming, and Vermilion managed to swing an arm out.  

The slender form slowly ducked under it.  “Oh, so that’s what that line of code does.”  

She sunk her fingers into numbers and letters only she could see and dug something out.  “You’re such an interesting project!” she cooed as she walked in front of him and tapped his nose.  “Now, let’s see,” she mused and lifted her arm.

Vermilion’s arm jerked despite his efforts to keep control.

“Oh, this is going to be fun!”  Sombra pressed against his legs, feeling the frame.  “You’re all hooked up! Come on, mi pequeño niño, let’s have some fun.”  

He grit his teeth and tried to move his hands, but the woman wouldn’t let him.  

“Vamos, vamos!”  

Vermilion was force to follow as she took control of his frame.

  
  
  


Vermilion sat there, hands chained behind his back to the radiator.  The collar around his neck was too tight and his left handcuff was loose, his back was hot and his feet were cold.  Sombra’s music was loud, and she kept trying to get Vermilion to talk. “All you have to do is ask, rojo, I’ll get you some water.”  He sat there, mouth dry, plotting his revenge.

 Sombra was clicking away at a laptop hooked up to Vermilion’s dataport on his left arm, snacking on some sesame sticks and hummus, loudly drinking a lemon flavored water.  “Refreshing!” she insisted, but Vermilion sat quietly. “You’re no fun, amigo. Well, I got past your firewalls, now to see what makes the great red-eyed bastard of China tick!”  

His appearance had instantly intrigued her.  She loved his dark skin, his Chinese eyes and his long hair.  His suit was expensive and his shoes cost more than her mother’s house.  She had yet to remove the scarf he wore over his mouth, but she could make out his broad nose and possibly full lips.  

Vermilion’s fingers suddenly quit flexing.  

“There we go, got your hands turned off.  Have you been typing this entire time, trying to keep me out, mijo?” she asked, and then she cackled.  “Gotta admit, you’re not a bad programmer. Not a great one, no where NEAR me, but you’re not bad. Very functional.”

She continued to tap away.  “I’ll admit I don’t get you, though.  Look at this, you’ve got your throat wired to your A.I.!  And your lungs! You can’t use them normally, can you?” She muttered in Spanish as she accessed his files, and Vermilion watched them flicker across the HUD in his cybernetic eyes.  “Oh, here, something nice. Let’s translate that from Chinese, and, hijole, that’s ugly. This is you?” 

She turned the laptop to him and he winced and looked away at the picture of his ruined throat.  

“What was that?  Was your tea to hot or something, mijo?”  She scrolled down. “Oh, let’s see, massive chemical burns, nasty, nerve damage.  Amp? They made you drink raw Amp? No wonder. You’re lucky you’re with me now, rojo, I’ll take care of you.”  

He huffed through his nose and she continued to pry.  

“So, you can’t talk.  You must be thirsty.” She held out the water bottle.  “C’mon, I don’t backwash, and you haven’t had anything to drink in hours.  I know I need to get in at LEAST six liters a day. Toma un sorbo, bebé!” 

She hauled his mask off and winced at his ruined mouth.  She held the bottle to his lips and tilted, and Vermilion was too thirsty to argue and he took a long drink.  Water dribbled from the gap in the corner of his right mouth. 

“There you go.  Better, right?” 

He pulled back, impressed she wasn’t totally repulsed by the scars and damage to his lower face.

“Once I get firm control of your arms I’ll let you get something to eat.”

 

Vermilion hated everything about Sombra.  Her cheerfulness, her bright smile, her cruel eyes, her bad taste in ‘Chinese’ food.  He was struggling to regain control of his arms, but she insisted on helping him eat. 

She held the VR hand controls, twisting them, trying to get the chopsticks to work.  Until she was certain he was under control she did not want to use her own hands to control him.  “Come on, work with me!” she hissed as she pressed the buttons a little harder. “C’moooooon!” 

Vermilion’s hands jerked and the chopsticks clattered to the floor.  He refused to eat whatever this mess of a meal was.

“You are not cooperating!”  She slammed his right hand onto the floor, gripped the chopsticks, and lifted them.  So far she had been able to use a programming version of muscle memory to get him to use the chopsticks, but he was, of course, fighting her.  His hand stuttered and suddenly his left hand slammed the bowl of broccoli beef into his chest. “Ha! Take that!” she cackled, and Vermilion sighed.

He hated her with every fiber of his being.

 

Reaper watched as Somba and Vermilion ate in unison.  “It only took you three days to break him.” Sombra nodded, and Vermilion glared angrily.  “He reeks. Shower him off and get ready for a mission.” Reaper hung a clothing bag on the door and chucked a suitcase into the room.  “Found his safe house. Make sure he’s ready.” Reaper glared down at him. “And cover that ugly face up.”

Vermilion put his fork and plate down as Sombra did, and his arms mimicked her as she eagerly pulled clothes from the suitcase.  “Oh, mi pequeño juguete favorito, look, we got you new clothes! I used to love fashion dolls as a little girl!” 

“Oh, look, so many bullets!”  Sombra pulled his ammunition out and rooted through the suitcase.  “Batteries for your frame, and what’s this?” She pulled out a weird device, a slender rectangle a foot and across and several inches wide.  The lid opened and she activated it, creating a hard light keyboard. “You play piano?”

Vermilion finally nodded at her.

“I’ll bet you’re good.  If you do well tonight, I’ll let you play a little.”  She folded the piano back up and dug in the case. “You got some nice shampoo, rojo.  Well, let’s get you tidied up.” She made him stand, collect his suit, and walk to the bathroom.  “You can shower, but the second I suspect something, I’m shutting your lungs down, comprende?” 

Vermilion nodded at her, and she sat down on the toilet to tap away at Pachimari Panic as her puppet showered.  He wished he had never programmed his exoframe into his A.I.. Once he got out of this situation, he was reprogramming everything.  Spine, arms, eyes, frame, he knew what he would do differently. For now he stripped, stepped out of his frame, and finally showered and shaved.

 

The job didn’t take much time.  Between Reaper’s terrifying presence and Vermilion’s skills, they had cleared the warehouse and claimed the payload back from the local police force.  

As they sat in the transport, Vermilion chained to the sliding door by his neck, Sombra slid his hard light keyboard to him.  

“Play a little something, yeah?” she asked.  “There are rumors you’re amazing. I want to know if it’s true.”

Vermilion paused for a while, then realised he had control of his arms again.  He pondered what to play as he opened the keyboard and let it shimmer to life. He played a few scales, wishing he were a t a table so he could use the pedals, and settled on a modern Chinese composer.  ‘2000 Marbles’ by Zhong Xun was o ne of his favorite pieces, and Sombra listened, enthralled.  

Reaper ignored it.

Eventually they reached their destination and the truck rattled to a stop.  

Vermilion closed his piano and stood up, leaning against the wall for balance.  His body hadn’t felt right since Sombra forced her way into it.

“Lau,” Reaper hissed as he strode up to the assassin.  He wrestled the case from from Vermilion’s hands, then tossed it behind him.  

Sombra caught it and held it close, sighing at the violence she knew was coming.

Reaper unlocked the door and lifted it, and Vermilion, up.  

He struggled with the chain around his neck, and Sombra resisted trying to help.  It wouldn’t do any good, and she knew Reaper wouldn’t kill him just yet. Vermilion was too good a tool to waste right away.

“You didn’t do as you were told,” Reaper hissed as Vermilion struggled to breathe.  “You were told to kill every last person in that warehouse. Why did I have to kill a secretary?”

Vermilion struggled to get his fingers under the thick chain, unable to make anything but bubbling noises.  

“Not that I’m complaining, but I just want you to to be aware you’re not hauling your weight.”  Reaper gripped Vermilion’s suit and hauled down, slamming the door shut and knocking the breath out of the assassin.  “Do your job or I’ll put your eyes out.”

Vermilion struggled to draw breath as Sombra undid the chain, and she gestured to two agents.  

“My room, darse prisa,” she ordered, and the agents helped Vermilion stand and guide him to her room.  “By the radiator.” 

Vermilion didn’t struggle as she gained control of his arms to chain himself to the radiator, and he sat quietly.  

“Good little boy.”  She put the piano on the table and picked up her laptop to get some work done.

 

Sombra’s door banged open and Reaper stomped inside.  “We’ve got them on the run. Grab your little pet and let’s go.”  Reaper suddenly crouched by him and gripped Vermilion’s chin, glaring into his eyes.  “He’s been a good little toy, hasn’t he?” 

Vermilion squeezed his eyes shut as Reaper ran his thumbs over them, pressing softly.  

“Let me know if he disobeys, I still want to put his eyes out.”  Sombra pressed a button on her wrist and Vermilion lost control of his body again.  

  
  


Hanzo was hard pressed to dodge both Talon agents and their new gunman.  He dual-wielded 50mm guns, didn’t seem to have any self preservation, and he doggedly followed the archer through the ruins of the suburb.  He had to have cybernetic enhancements, it was the only way he survived duel-wielding such powerful guns. For most of a week he had hounded Hanzo, and finally they were alone together, cut off from both of their teams.

Hanzo was ready to fire when he spotted a purple smear near him.

As Sombra raised her arms the gunman raised his, and Hanzo suddenly realized what was going on.  He did have cybernetic limbs, and he wasn’t the one in control. “Come on, niño dragón, I know you’re there!” she cheered, and another round of massive bullets shredded Hanzo’s hiding place.  He rolled forward, pulled himself over a stairwell cover and ducked down as a grenade landed near him with a soft chunk.

Hanzo barely had time to move away and he could feel the shrapnel sever a plate in his left foot.  He wasn’t crippled, far from it, but the damage could worsen if he leapt from too great a height. He pulled out a scatter arrow and fired, but another salvo forced him to release too soon and he missed.

This would be so much easier if he could just shoot the gunman as he had before, but Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to do so now.  He might have been a hired gun, and he might have been someone hauled in against his will. He needed to have great talent on his own, though, for Sombra to get any use out of him.

“I’m pinned down, Sombra has a gunman under her control,” he announced into his communicator, but all he heard in return was a petty giggle.

“You’re mine, dragón!” she hissed happily.  “Go on, mi muñeco bermellón, show him why you’re paid so much.”

Bermellón?  That had to be the assassin Vermilion.  Hanzo had heard stories, but they were just that, stories.  The red-eyed bastard of China, a triad gunman extraordinaire.  A duel wielding monster who never stopped, never rested, and even when knocked unconscious, he still moved.  He was in and out in a flash, most people only seeing a smear of red-orange before they realised they had almost died.  

The wall near him shook and Hanzo realized he had leapt.  How much cybernetic work had he had done to leap clear over a city street?  He needed an exoframe at the very least.

Hanzo rolled and moved across the roof as a glove, black with a vermilion palm, hauled the assassin over the roof.  He was as Hanzo had imagined from the stories, nimble and lithe with a fashionable black suit. It was armored with a redistribution shield, something Talon had been after for some time now.  He had dark skin and inky black hair, and wore an orange-red scarf over his mouth and forehead. 

He looked, however, like he had lost a battle with a bus and had tried for a rematch.  His suit was dusty and ragged, his shoes scuffed and his hair unkempt. Vermilion’s purple eyes, ringed black with exhaustion, tracked him, and Hanzo could see the frustration and bitterness on the parts of the face he could see.  As the guns swung towards him Hanzo saw him try to set his balance off center, but he corrected himself.

“Rhun.”  The voice was soft and hissed like an autumn leaf, and Hanzo readied an arrow.  

He fired, the scatter arrow fracturing and shining all around Vermilion, but the gunman couldn’t defend himself.

Hanzo dashed close, suddenly too close, and Vermilion, or Sombra, couldn’t react fast enough.  As he slammed the palm of his fist into Vermilion’s collarbone he saw the assassin rotate his guns and try to gesture.  Hanzo could see the settings on his massive custom pieces in Chinese, and he examined them quickly.

It took him precious seconds to decipher the kanji, and in that time Vermilion had moved backwards and brought the other hand cannon up.  Hanzo gripped it, sliding his hand over the safety, but he was only able to set it from DRAGON to FIREFLY. He had no idea what the settings meant, but he hoped it wasn’t going to be another 50mm bullet aimed in his direction.

Vermilion fired, and Hanzo realized the setting was a stunning bolt, and he grappled his other arm and slid the safety on completely.  

Vermilion nodded at him briefly and struggled to pull back and throw himself off balance.  

“Sombra, release this man!”

“Not gonna happen, niño dragón!” she laughed in his ear.  “It took me too long to break him! I am not losing him now!”  

Struggling against Sombra’s control had slowed the assassin down, and Hanzo had no doubts he was not rested or feed properly.

Hanzo himself had been on the run for several days now and wasn’t in the best shape.  He had been in worse, though, and could manage. 

Vermilion’s arms struggled, and Hanzo realised he was still rebelling.  

Hanzo flung him over his hip and struck his chest, silently apologizing.

Vermilion hit hard but rolled and fired, and a stunning shot struck Hanzo’s damaged foot.  He deliberately twirled the guns and dramatically set them back on DRAGON. 

“Clever, miho, but he’s mine.”  Sombra raised Vermilion’s guns and Hanzo lurched forward, stabbing his left elbow with a scatter arrow.

Vermilion couldn’t scream, and Hanzo struck again as Sombra got a shot on Hanzo’s right foot, breaking the ankle.  

“My apologies,” he said quietly and brought his knee into Vermilion’s chest, then his neck and chin, snapping his foot out.  He felt Vermilion’s collarbone crack.

Vermilion hit the edge of the roof, fingers curled around his guns, and Hanzo slammed the base of his palm into Vermilion’s forehead.  The assassin fell backwards, eyes flickering into darkness, and Hanzo caught him by his lapels before he fell backwards over the edge of the building.

Sombra’s shout of rage caused static in his communicator and Vermilion’s arms started to flail, firing randomly, and Hanzo slammed Vermilion’s wrist in the ledge, trying to make him drop his guns.  

The ledge cracked and Hanzo watched in horror as the assassin fell backwards, striking a balcony on the second floor and plunging, broken, to the street.

He ripped his communicator out of his ear as Sombra scolded him in fast, angry Spanish, lamenting the loss of her toy, and her machine pistol struggled to shoot Hanzo from such a distance.  Hanzo stood and fired a scatter arrow, and with a shriek of rage she retreated, and Hanzo pulled out his secondary communicator.

“Mercy, Soldier, do you copy?”

“I copy,” Soldier: 76 said gruffly.

“I have a man down, an outsider Sombra was controlling.  Unsure if he survived.”

“On my way.”

Hanzo slung his bow on his back and quickly scaled down the fire escape.  

Vermilion was in poor shape.  He lay on the ground, barely breathing as Hanzo hobbled over to him, one foot damaged and the other ankle shattered.  

He felt Vermilion’s pulse and shook his head.  If not for his enhancements he would have died, but as it was he was close.  As someone came close Hanzo turned and drew his last arrow, but relaxed once Soldier: 76 slowed.

He planted a biotic emitter and readied his communicator.  “Looks bad, Mercy, we need you yesterday.”

“On the way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vermilion Lau is an old Cyberpunk character I used to play in the '90s. This version is a lot more balanced and a lot less angsty. He's half Chinese half, Ivory Coaster (Akan) 5'7", 32 years old during Recall, a Capricorn, and plays the piano at a concert level. He also plans to pistol whip Sombra every chance he gets with his Automag XIII .50mm customs pistols.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vermilion is repaired, and maybe even makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know sign language grammar is different from English. I'm posting Vermilion signing in English, though, for the ease of the reader.

Nothing moved and everything hurt.  Every breath was dry and hard in his damaged throat, and every tilt of his head as he struggled made everything above his eyes scream.  With great effort he managed to raise his heavy arms, but the cybernetics had little charge and he could only get his wrists just above his hips when everything came crashing down on him.  He took long, shuddering gasps of air as he tried to control himself, but he could do nothing but struggle to breathe.

“Shh, it’s OK,” a gentle voice he didn’t know spoke into his ear.  “You’re safe, Vermilion, you’re safe.” He could feel her adjust an oxygen mask on his ruined mouth.

‘No such thing,’ he thought to himself bitterly.  Who had him now? Was he back with Hound? Had the Lau family reclaimed him?  How did he survive Sombra and Shimada? That was Shimada Hanzo, wasn’t it? He tried to cough but gagged on his own spittle.  “Hoo?” he managed to spit out, throat spasming.

“Who what?  Who am I?” the voice asked.  “I’m Mercy.” Vermilion took an acid breath.  “I’m going to help you.”

Someone once told him something similar and it did not go well.  He faded back into sleep.

  
  


“I’m activating your eyes now, all right?” Mercy’s soft voice said.  She had pulled the tubes from his nose and throat and he was breathing on his own, but that was almost all he could do.  “The lights in the room are nice and dim so they won’t hurt you. Raise your left hand if you need me to stop.”

Everything slowly started to flicker into place and his eyes slowly lit up.  “Can you raise your right hand if everything is good?” Mercy was a creamy smear on his vision and he lifted both of his arms and flexed his fingers.  “It’s working?” He lowered his left hand, and she gently pet his temples. “It will take some time to get yourself back to a hundred percent. Sombra was not kind to you.”

‘No.  Sss. Teh.”  He couldn’t even spit out  proper curse words.

“It’s OK, try not to speak.  I’ve seen the damage.” Vermilion winced and struggled to move.  “No, don’t, please, you’ll hurt yourself.” He couldn’t possibly hurt worse.  He managed to bring his arm up to his mouth and cover it, but he misjudged and slapped his own face, striking Mercy on the way.  She pulled back with a shout and Vermilion lurched to his feet.

His eyes couldn’t track anything and he fell out of the bed as she shouted for someone, and a scrap of red on the table caught his attention.  He tumbled to the ground and managed to haul it down with him and held it to his face, the familiar silk comforting against his damaged lips.

Hands moved over him and he didn’t care, he just pressed his scarf to his mouth.  He held it close as the hands tugged on it. “No, don’t, he just wants his scarf, he just wants to cover his scars, Genji.  Let him go.” Gentle fingers helped him tie the silk back on, and he slouched there, barely breathing, petting the material.  He couldn’t feel his fingers, but his lips could still feel a little, and he sunk to the floor.

 

When he woke up again his eyes focused properly and adjusted to the light.  He was able to lift both arms easily, and he rubbed his fingertips together, feeling the pads rub against each other.  He flexed his neck and spine and held his arms above him, then sat up. He ignored the chiming as he fingered his mouth, pleased it was covered.  It wasn’t his mask, but a surgical mask.

“Here, lay back down.”  Vermilion lifted three fingers and tapped them to his chin a few times.  “What? I don’t understand.” 

He lifted three fingers, then a fist with his thumb sideways, he moved his index finger over his thumb, moved his thumb to the bottom of his fingers, then crossed his fingers and held his thumb sideways.  “You’re using sign language,” Mercy had realised halfway through and he nodded his hand. “Wait, wait, let me see, hold on.” She pulled out her datapad and held the camera to him. “Again?” 

He tapped his chin with three fingers extended and the datapad chimed.  “Water.”

“You’re thirsty, I’ll get you something.”  She returned and he got a good look at her.  She was a lovely woman, blond, a little frazzled but collected.  “Do you need a straw?” He nodded his hand at her and she returned, and he managed to get the straw under his mask despite her helping to hold everything as he drank.  “Not so fast, you’ve been sleeping and don’t want to make yourself sick.” Vermilion didn’t care and drank until she took it away, then leaned back down. 

When she stood back up he snatched the glass and poured it on his mask.  She instantly started to fuss over him and he covered his face with his hands.  “You need it, don’t you? The silk?” He nodded his hands. “You need a filter for your lungs?”  He tapped his throat and she understood. “Do you want some hard candy?” He nodded after a moment and she returned with a handful of toffees.  He had adjusted the silk to be above his nose and breathed the damp air, soothing his throat.

 

Vermilion was examining his clothes as Mercy returned, and she took his shoulders and tried to guide him back to bed.  His jacket, frame and chest guards were locked up, possibly. Most of Vermilion’s terrifying stories came from the gear he wore under his immaculate tailored suits.  His spine held the redistribution field, which spread along his specialty designed suit jackets and with the exo-frame on his legs. It had taken several weeks to find a tailor able to work with his style, and to cover up the frame which allowed him to leap and run far better than most humans.

“You need rest, Vermilion.”  He eyed her and returned to dressing.  What she honestly unafraid of him or just stupid?  “And where do you think you’re going once you get dressed?”

He paused, gestured to the door since pointing was rude, and examined his tie.  He sighed at the damage, the silk forever stained by water and food. Sombra had insisted on helping him feed himself, but her aim was lacking.  His entire suit was ruined, good for nothing but training in, but he could never bring himself to be seen in such a state. He would have to take the technological lining out and have it installed in another jacket.

“Back to bed with you, mister!” Mercy insisted, and he ignored her.  “You need to rest. You just got control of your systems back, we had to replace your entire spine!”  The only reason he could duel wield 50mm shotguns as weapons was his spine and shoulder blades had been enhanced and modified, and his arms were completely cybernetic.  His spine had been damaged severely in the fall, and he to admit the new one felt smoother.

Vermilion examined the torn stitches of his vest, and winced at the grosgrain facing.  “Your clothes can be repaired easier than you. Rest.” She continued to nag at him until he turned around sharply.

His world blurred and he crumbled, and she guided him to the ground.  “Here, back to bed with you.” He stood and pulled away, and lurched for the door.  “Jesse, he’s making a break for it,” she said in frustration.

Vermillion collapsed to the floor before even getting halfway to the door, and it slid open.  Was that a cowboy? Vermilion watched in utter confusion as Jesse McCree walked over to him.  _ “Hallucination,” _ he sighed, tapping his temple then shaking his hands around his head.  He had to be hallucinating.

“Nope, I’m real.  Not a dream or a figment.”

_ “You sign,” _ he managed to exclaim as Jesse hauled him up.  He kept frantically signing as Jesse got him back to the bed, and he let himself be sat down.   _ “You sign, you can talk to me.”   _ Was he really so lonely he was signing to a possibly hallucinated cowboy?

_ “You got an accent,” _ Jesse signed back,  _ “but, yeah.  My sister is deaf.  I sign.” _

_ “I’m not deaf, just mute,”  _ Vermilion signed back.

_ “I know, your throat’s all screwed up, but it’s easier for me to sign if I sign back.”   _ Vermilion nodded.   _ “Now get some sleep, you’re still hurt.” _

_ “I cannot stay here, I have a job.” _  Vermilion’s shock of actually being able to talk to someone was wearing off, and he swung his legs back off of the bed.   _ “I need to get to work.” _

_ “A bounty or an assassination?”   _

_ “Does it matter?  I want to go.” _

_ “Somewhat, yeah.  Now, listen, if you’re an assassin, we have take you in.”   _ Vermilion scoffed at him.   _ “But it it’s a bounty, you’re fine, get me?”   _ Vermillion gave him a short nod.   _ “Now, Hanzo feels responsible for your damage, he’s the one who threw you off the roof.  So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re patched up and he’s footing the bill.”  _ Vermilion paused, thinking.  

_ “You have a new spine, new arms, we’ve repaired your leg exo- frame. Mercy wants to patch your throat up.  She can’t replace the vocal cords, but she can give you skin grafts and make it so you can breathe without a wet scarf, got that?” _

_ “And she is helping me why, exactly?”   _

_ “It’s what Overwatch does.”   _

_ “Overwatch doesn't exists.  The Petras Act forbids it.”  _

_ “Assassins ain’t legal, either.”   _ Vermilion sighed when Jesse fingerspelled ‘aint.’  There was something weird about that.  _ “It’s what we do.  Look, she wants to help you.  She’s a sweet woman who likes to help people, understand?” _

_ “She can repair all this?”  _ Vermilion asked and circled his face and neck with one hand.

_ “She can’t replace everything, but she can fix your skin and sooth your throat.  The damage to your vocal cords and tongue is severe, but she can stop the pain and repair the nerves so you can swallow on your own.”   _ Vermilion sighed, thinking.   _ “Why not let her help you?” _

Vermilion paused, trying to find the words.   _ “I don’t deserve it.” _

“You don’t!” Jesse started, startled.  “OK, fine then, look at it this way. We fix you up, you come when we call.  We won’t ask you to kill people, but you can help us out a lot, got that? We’ll pay you, of course, you’re worth your time.”

To be able to breath without pain, that was alluring.  Vermilion nodded.  _ “My time is expensive.”   _ Vermilion put his hands to his throat at took a breath.   _ “But we can work on a discount.” _

They shook hands and Jesse relayed the information to Mercy.

  
  
  


His lips were better.  At one point they had been sewn shut, and he had ripped them open during a torture session.  The lack of speech did not mean he couldn’t try to scream. They were now smooth, and he touched them gently, marveling at their solid surface.

The corners of his mouth didn’t bleed, and they met in the middle.  The scar from his lips to almost his right ear was faded and would soon be nothing but a bad memory.  The skin around his eyes was smooth and flat, and his eyes worked beautifully. His skin on his chin and throat were smoother now, and his neck didn’t pucker from scar tissue.

Inside of said neck the skin was free of the scars and burns done by the raw Amp trickling down his throat.  His lungs had been repaired, and the nerve damage done by inhaling the chemicals repaired. He could breathe and swallow without any conscious thought.

There was little she could do for what was left of his tongue at this point.  She could give him back the missing chunk of his tongue, but the nerve damage ment it wouldn’t function properly.  Breathing and swallowing without the aid of an artificial intelligence wired into his nervous system was more than enough.  

When he woke up he drank water, he simply drank water from lips that didn’t leak, with a throat that didn’t constrict.  He then sat there, breathing and sobbing, looking at his repaired arms and chest. His flesh and bone arms were still gone, burned and twisted away by his former employers, but the nerve hookups no longer burned.

The cybernetics were never going to be the same as his own, but they didn’t hurt.  He sat on the bed, breathing and sobbing and drinking, and grateful they let him.

 

_ “I’m practicing,”  _ he signed, walking out into the hall.  He had to wear a sweatsuit, but the desire to walk around overruled his fashion sense.  The least they could do was find him a black sweatsuit, or even a tracksuit, something with some form to it.  He still hadn’t given them to location to any of his safe-houses for his clothes, desiring his privacy.

Mercy’s datapad chimed at his signing and she read it.  “Wait, practicing what?” Mercy asked and followed him. “You’re not cleared for the gun range!” she insisted.  His guns were still locked in the safe, as well.

Rather he went to the old piano shoved off to the side in a lobby.  He had spotted it on his way in even though he was delirious and damaged, and it had hung in his mind for over a month.  He gave a few scales, then sighed and opened the seat.

As he hoped there were several tools he needed and sheet music he didn’t, and he removed the spare goggles, lost gloves and random items and books from the top of the piano and opened it.  “You play?” He nodded at her and pressed some keys. “Well, you enjoy that. I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” Vermilion pulled out a tool so he could tune the poor instrument.

An hour later he still wasn’t done and was refusing to return to the medical room to rest.  Mercy was bringing over, of all things, a talking gorilla. Cowboys and gorillas and yakuza crime lords.  If Vermilion was dead, Hell was weird.

“But Jesse’s not here to talk sense into him and he’s not listening to me,” she was explaining.  “If you don’t know sign language he just won’t talk to you.”

“Well, if he’s healthy enough to tune a piano, let him.  It’s been neglected for too long,” he was saying, and Vermilion snapped his fingers at them.  “Excuse me?” He held out his hand, pointed to the datapad, and snapped again.  _  “I know sign language.  American, with a touch of British.” _

_ “Excuse me, I’m used to being ignored.  I need supplies,” he signed. _

“I don’t think you’re in any position,” the gorilla started to say, and Vermilion gestured to the piano.  “Ah, I see.” Vermilion gestured to the datapad and the man handed it over. Vermilion quickly typed out a list and handed it back.  “Dampers, felts, hm, all right” he muttered, “I’ll send in an order. Should be here Wednesday.” Vermilion gave a short nod and returned to tuning.  “Let the man tune.”

 

The music woke her up.  Mercy had been scolded for sleeping in the medical wing at her desk before, but this time at least were were open beds and she was in one for a change.  The old piano was tuned and repaired and Vermilion was playing. It was a strong and stirring piece, and it sounded like something the vampire would dance to while wooing the female lead in a movie.  She stood at the edge of the room, watching as Vermilion ran his fingers over the keys. The others had joined her, listening to him.

The old upright piano was now more than just a random thing someone dragged home on a dare once, it had become an instrument.  “He spends all day repairing and tuning it only to spend the night playing Chopin,” Hanzo lamented, and Vermilion’s hands slapped the keys in agitation.  

He stood, gestured to Hanzo, then to the piano, tilting his head in an obvious challenge.  Hanzo huffed and was set to ignore him, but the others in the room were watching. He then strode forward, nodded to Vermilion and sat down.  Mercy wasn’t aware that Hanzo played, and he performed a lovely rendition of the first part of Moonlight Sonata.

While he played Vermilion walked forward, sheet music in hand, and he held it out to Mercy.  “You want me to pick one?” Vermilion nodded and gave a graceful bow, then drew his right hand from his lips.  “There’s a piece I really love, but I don’t know what it’s called.” Vermillion signed, and she shook her head.  He had held one arm out and swung to other over it, but she didn’t understand. He then put a hand to his throat and drew it out, opening his mouth under his mask.  

“You want me to sing it?”  She nervously hummed a few bars, slightly off key, and Vermilion nodded at her.  “You know the one?” she asked, and he nodded. After Hanzo finished Vermilion sat back down and started to play again.

He looked to Mercy who nodded.  “That’s the one! It played at my graduation!”  Vermilion gestured to Hanzo and then the keys to the left.  Mercy looked to him, bright and cheerful and he sighed and sat down.

“You take the pedals,” Hanzo said and Vermilion nodded.  The two assassins knocked elbows for a moment, then started to play, Hanzo taking the lower register, and Mercy stood enraptured as the music filled the room.  There were a few elbow knocks and missed notes, but it was a new piece to both men and they played to the best of their abilities, but it was clear Vermilion was the better pianist.

  
Somehow, after dawn and before ten in the morning, both Vermilion and the piano were gone and Watchpoint: Santa Barbara was quiet.   He had left behind a business card, in vermilion ink, and Winston made sure to put it in a safe place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later Jesse runs into Vermilion while they're both hunting bounties. In the between time Jesse has been hiring him as backup, and they've come to respect each other. Now Jesse has a bounty he wants for personal reasons, and Vermilion gets involved.

Jesse was not pleased.  He pried off a plate and examined the wiring inside, then tried not to bite his tongue as he accidently pressed the wire to the casing.  The gunshot had ricocheted inside the casing and exposed a wire inside, and the exposed wire was tapping the metal housing. Jesse wrapped the wire with electrical tape as best he could, wadded a few small balls to hold everything in place and banged the case back into place, knowing Winston would he furious with him when he returned.  

‘Dollar store electrical tape?  At least use name brand!’ Jesse laughed, hearing Winston’s voice in his head as he secured the connections.

The nerves of his left arm settled down as he rotated, and he was finally able to move without the left side of his body screaming at him.  Jesse shoved the tape back into his pocket and pulled his sleeve back down to his elbow. Sammy was just making this harder on himself. Jesse did not like being shot at.

  
  


It had taken Jesse over an hour of driving to reach the old hideout, and as he feared another bounty hunter had found it first.  He hoverbike outside gave him hope, though, and he examined the scrapes on the ground. Someone had been shot and dragged inside, and there were no signs of fresh bullet holes.  Whoever hit the old Deadlock hideout had precision. Precision, the strength to haul multiple bodies inside, and an expensive hoverbike in red.

 “Vermilion Lau,” Jesse said as he strode into the room.  “I have a favor to ask of you.” The assassin and bounty hunter looked up at him, gun still pressed along the back of a man’s spine.  “I need a bounty of yours.” Vermilion twitched his head as Jesse pointed to a man, just over thirty years old, scruffy and brown. “I’ll pay you for that one.”

“Jess, Jess, is that you?” the man asked.  “Oh, please, Jess, don’t let him kill me!” All of Vermilion’s bounties were laying face down in the dust.  The one Jesse wanted started to squirm to turn around and look at them.

“Hush, Sammy.  Vermilion, I’ll pay twice his bounty.  Just let me have him.” Vermilion tilted his head at Jesse in obvious curiosity and a distinct feeling of ‘no.’  “Please.”

“Jess, you gotta help me!”  Vermilion stunned the man he was kneeling on and cuffed him, wrists to opposite ankles.  All in all he head eleven men, each one under two-thousand a head, not a bad haul. He hauled his groaning prey over to Sammy and dropped him, then put a foot lightly on Sammy’s back.

“Now hush up, baby brother, and let a man talk.”  Vermilion rocked back on his heels and gestured to the other men, each cuffed and stunned or recovering.  “You can keep them, I just want Samuel McCree.” Jesse pulled out a wallet and a few cards. “Here, five hundred, five hundred, six hundred, one thousand, keep the change.”  The amounts given weren’t quite accurate, but it was still just over twice what Sammy was worth to the bounty heads.

Jesse was unsure what Vermilion would do, but he stood there, cards out, watching.  Vermilion pondered for a few moments, then nodded. He kept his foot on Sammy’s back as he took the cards and examined them, then pulled out a cigarette case and placed them inside.  He then held out his left hand, and like a magician summoning the ace of spades, snapped out the key to the cuffs. “Much obliged.” Vermillion nodded and uncuffed Sammy and handed him over.  As Jesse cuffed him in his own restraints, Vermilion pulled out a signal flare gun and stepped outside. He shot it in the air and turned to his other prey, leaving Jesse to take his brother and leave.

 

“Jesse, damn, I thought that red-eyed s* was gonna kill me!” Sammy gasped as Jesse hauled him to the car.  “Never seen one so dark! He’s almost black!”

“Don’t call him that.  It’s rude.” Jesse shoved Sammy’s head down and shoved him in truck, then chained his reastraints through the bars on the passenger side.  “Be civilized!”

“Jess, what are you doing?”

“Taking you in, Sammy.”  Jesse walked around the car and got in.  “You ain’t worth much, but I ain’t gonna let someone else haul you in.”

“Jess, you don’t understand,” Sammy started to say and Jesse held up a finger.  “Jess, I can’t go to prison!”

“Sammy,” Jesse sighed as he started to drive, “I gave you chances.  I gave you money, I set you up for an honest life, and what do you do with it?  You sold the house for drug money!”

“You think they were going to let me go?” Sammy demanded bitterly.

“A bit player like you?  Yeah, all you had to do was keep your fool mouth shut and your nose clean and you would have had a great life.  Instead you’re trying to restart Deadlock.” The old tattoo on Jesse’s back, now covered with cherry blossoms and crossed guns, itched a little.

“Jess, they gave me no choice.”

“You had a choice!” he snarled back, “and you know it.”  Jesse lit a cigarello and puffed on it angrily. “You should have just stayed low, lived humble.  Kept the house in Arizona. Emma’s,” he started, but stopped. Best to leave their sister out of it.  She had kept her promise and used her money to start a school for the deaf and was doing well.

“You set such a good example for me, too,” Sammy snapped, and they rode in silence.  Finally they reached a cemetary. “Jess?”

“Might be a while before you’re out, thought you might want to say hi to everybody.”  Jesse made sure his brother was clipped to his arm as he let him out. He gave Sammy enough slack to kneel and together they cleared the grass and debris from Caroline Marie’s grave, Jesse’s younger and Sammy’s older sister.  Their parents graves sat next to her, and the brothers took a few moments to clear it as well, and to put the tombstones and markers of the nearby graves back into working order.

After they were done they sat there for a while, neither speaking and neither knowing what to say, and Sammy stood up.  “OK, we can go.” Jesse nodded and helped him stand, then held his hat over his heart for a few moments before walking Sammy back to the car.

When they got there a familiar suited figure was waiting, leaning against the door.  His expensive hoverbike, an Ariel X-80 Stinger, was parked behind Jesse’s old truck. “Something I can help you with, Lau?” Jesse asked as he locked Sammy in the truck.  “Keep your fool mouth shut, Sammy,” he hissed and turned to the assassin. Vermilion made an exaggerated show of undoing his jacket, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded flier.  As a man who couldn’t speak Vermilion was used to using extra gestures to make his point. Sign language was not as common as it should have been.

Jesse looked at the freshly printed bounty flier for himself.  “You saying you want to collect?” Jesse asked slyly, “or you just want it autographed?”  Vermilion tapped the page, showing the updated date. “Huh, that’s not good.” The flier was up to date as of that morning, with a higher bounty than before.  _  “Thanks for the warning, friend,” _ he signed, and grinned at the surprise on Vermilion’s face.   _ “Forgot I could sign?” _

Friend?   _ “No.  Nevermind.”   _ It was rare Vermilion signed with people, and sometimes even simple things were a shining light in a dark place of silence.   _ “You can’t take him to Las Cruces,”  _ he signed, fingerspelling the city.  

“El Paso, then,” Jesse mused and folded the flier up and put it in his pocket.  Vermilion shook his head. “You’re on top of things today. Why be so helpful if there’s nothing in it for you?”

Vermilion tilted his head and flipped his hand, then started to sign.   _ “I appreciate a family man.  I never got the chance to take my own brothers in.” _

“Learn something new every day,” Jesse mused.  “What’s your recommendation?”

_ “Cut him loose and come back for him later.  Almost everyone in town is after you, now. You’re wanted, dead or alive.”   _ Vermilion snorted.  _  “So long as your head’s in good condition, they don’t even need your body.” _

“And what’s in it for you?” Jesse asked warily.  Vermilion was not a cheap man to hire, and he was somewhat surprised he was taking in bounties less than 10k a head.  Sammy was only worth eleven-hundred. “You don’t gain anything helping me escape, and you know the other bounty hunters ain’t gonna like you much for helping me get away.”

_ “You’re a good source of income and technology, and my penthouse is expensive.”   _ Of course Vermilion was in it for the money.   _ “Besides, I was thinking of going back overseas, things are getting Texas over here.” _  He paused.   _ “And I appreciate the help you and your friends have given me.” _

“Heh, I like you, Milly.”

_ “And I suppose I enjoy your jobs and company enough not to shoot you for calling me Milly.” _

“Can I hire you on to help me get Sammy to El Paso?  We can negotiate a price. You know I’m good for it.”

Vermilion pondered, then nodded.  He returned to his hoverbike, an expensive affair in black and scarlet, only because he couldn’t get it in vermilion.  “You are super dedicated to your aesthetic, aren’t ya?” Jesse joked and Vermilion flipped him off. “Follow at a distance and cover us?”  Vermilion nodded and shut the canopy.

 

The ride had been nice enough.  Sammy had been quiet, Vermilion trailed at a good distance, and the the radio actually worked on a good station.  Things seemed to be going too well, though, and Jesse had no illusions about things going wrong.

The EMP caused the hoverbike to fail and crash, skidding along the ground and tumbling.  “Milly!” Jesse’s truck faltered, the radio, lights, and air conditioning failing, but the engine kept going.  “Stay put!” he snapped at Sammy and slammed the breaks. Jesse reversed, then ran to the hoverbike, keeping low and one hand on his hat, and he skid behind the wreck as several bullets slammed into the ground near him.

Jesse waited a few moments to make sure it was clear, then tried to pry the canopy open.  When it didn't work he banged on it. “Bang back if you’re alive, Milly!” There came a noise from inside.  “I’m shooting it open!” Jesse fired two shots then slammed his left arm down, cracking the fractured canopy.  He struck it twice more, cracking it open, and ripped it off the sliding track.

Several bullets bit into the bike near him, and he crouched down.  He could see Vermilion moving inside, yanking his body to try and free it.  “Can you get free?”

_ “Stuck,”  _ he finger spelled, pointed to his right side.  He was pinned, the weight of the bike and his own left leg keeping his right leg trapped under the machine, and Jesse nodded.

“Sit tight, I’ll take care of our company.”  Jesse waited, took a breath, and rolled. He fired as he stood up and ran, reaching the cover of a highway railing.  The hoverbike took three more shots, the rest of the canopy fragmenting, and Jesse wished he had a flashbang. 

Rather he took careful aim, activating something deep inside him.  “It’s high noon,” he said cooly, the words helping him focus. No one was sure what let him shoot like this.  Maybe it was some ancient holdover from the wild west, some genetic quirk, or some pact with a crossroads devil long forgotten, but five of the gunmen went down and never got back up, bullets in their left eyes.

The last man simply ran.  Jesse reloaded and fired, taking him down, then returned to Vermilion.  Jesse groaned as he hauled the hoverbike up, and Vermilion pulled himself free and out of the wrecked canopy.  They sat, breathing, as Jesse spotted the empty truck. “They took Sammy.”

Vermilion gave a sigh, clapped Jesse’s shoulder, and stood up.  He kicked the side of his bike, then hauled his helmet off. He flung it to the ground with a disgusted huff, and stomped twice on the bike in anger.  The slid had ripped the hoverrings off, the bullets had pierced the engine and hover units, and it would cost more to repair than get a new one.

“That was custom?” Jesse guessed and Vermilion nodded.  “Paid a lot of money for it?” Vermilion nodded again. “Just got it too, huh.”  Vermilion kicked a broken hover rings. “Never got to get the right shade of red on it?  But you had plans?” Vermilion nodded and kicked the canopy, then stomped it again with a huff.  “Sorry ‘bout your bike.”

_ “Sorry about your brother.”   _ Vermilion reached into the storage and pulled out his weapons kit, then some basic supplies.   _ “Your truck still good?” _

“Yeah, should still be good.”

_ “Let’s go get your brother.”   _ They walked to Jesse’s truck and got in, tucking Vemrilion’s pack behind his seat, and after a moment Jesse got the engine turned over.

“Well, we got no onboard systems, but it stops and it goes, so we got that much.  How’s your onboard computer?” Jesse asked, referring to Vermilion’s A.I. that worked as his targeting system.

_ “Off line, but my life support systems have reset.  I can see, my lungs, throat, and arms work, so I can still shoot those bastards.  Your arm?”  _ he asked.

“Shielded and reset.  I’m good to go.” He flexed his fingers and put the truck in drive.  “No air, no radio.” Vermilion pulled out his datapad and stuck it to the dashboard.  When it didn’t work he sighed, collected himself, then pressed the button to lower the windows.  “Gonna be a long ride,” Jesse confirmed and Vermilion folded his arms across his chest, trying to sleep.


End file.
